Your hair falls in ways I can't describe
and you want to do the same as me.
You want to take someone in your arms,
you want to kiss them,
you want to call them pet names in the dim-lit
bedroom of society and friendship.
You might want to love someone as much as I do,
but is it me?
You want to sing love songs with the
airbrushed atmosphere of lack of talent
forgotten in the night's smoky air.
You don't want to give up.
But that's what I want to do.
And if everyone around me didn't promise to hate me,
I'd want to do it with you.
And I do, because I have given up.
That's where we're wrong.